


My Little Sister ☆ Can’t Be This Cute!

by Beauvoyr



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Big Brother Ignis, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Romance, F/M, Fluff and Humor, Idol Reader, Pre-Canon, Reader-Insert, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-09
Updated: 2019-02-09
Packaged: 2019-10-25 01:03:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17715101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beauvoyr/pseuds/Beauvoyr
Summary: Noctis thought he knew everything about his Advisor.And then there’s some.i:“Dude.” Prompto says.Noctis does his best impression of The Thinker dating from M.E. 655.“Iggy’s into this kind of thing.” Prompto asks, sans question mark. The shock definitely got to him. “Did you know about it.”Bros gotta protect each other’s secrets, right? Right. But the bro code never outlined an emergency protocol when two bros are pitted against each other. Who’s to say which bro is more important to him? ‘cause Prompto’s a bro, Ignis’ a bro, and asking him to pick between two bros is like asking him to choose either Assassin’s Creed or King’s Knight.





	My Little Sister ☆ Can’t Be This Cute!

**Author's Note:**

> If you’re here for shits and giggles, welcome. This fic is going to be a ride. Title is a spoof from Ore no Imouto series. You can probably tell how serious this fic is going to be, judging from the title lol
> 
> **HAPPY BIRTHDAY IGNIS SCIENTIA!**

**i:**

Maybe Ignis has a thing for things like _this,_ Noctis reasons. Under all that elegant pomp and heavily accented words rolling off a tongue peculiarly eloquent in jabs, steam-soft shirts and slacks swishing about as he walks, maybe he _secretly_ harboured an interest in things betraying his stern and stoic stature. Being the personal advisor to the prince grants him no leeway in freely expressing his interests beyond what Noctis eats, which meetings Noctis should be attending, when Noctis finishes classes, and whether or not Noctis got over his lachanophobia. Which, according to Ignis Posh Scientia, is fear of vegetables.

(Noctis _so_ does not have a fear of vegetables.)

(He just doesn’t like them.)

( _Very_ much.)

None of his internal monologues answered why on Eos in this standard Audi commissioned to every Citadel staff, in this dull sedan with its immaculate leather trim and waxed dashboard, Ignis kept a CD.

An _idol_ CD. The kind you’d find in a budget bin somewhere in Rock Corner for 90% off just because they want to get rid of trashy music as soon as possible lest it besmirches their shop’s status. Flashy pink booklet with signature of the **_iNTERGALACTiC_ _★ DiVΔ_** done in gold, sprawled all over its childish arrangement of what seems to be said Intergalactic Diva in the idolesque ensemble of flouncy skirt, crisp blazer scattered with silvery military embellishment, wearing the laciest pair of platform heels while _simultaneously_ surrounded with stuffed toys. Stuffed _toys_. As if the whole setup made sense only to the art director like some army veteran crossing over the whole cute couture concept they’ve got going on here.

Noctis takes another good look at the CD. A deeper, closer, more intimate look at the girly plastic casing and its tracklist on the back as though it’d explain the enigma suddenly surrounding the secret life of his 21-year-old Advisor and his secret stash.

Six minutes later, Noctis replaces the CD where it belongs: Right in the deepest, darkest corner of the glove compartment, where no eyes may venture where his accidentally went.

And then he went on searching for his missing phone.

**ii:**

A month and a half later, Noctis is pleased to announce that he’s entirely forgotten about the idol debacle. While the matter had loitered around the recesses of his mind for a maximum of two days, it’s all water-under-the-bridge kind of thing because nobody got hurt and he’s not about to make fun of his Advisor for repressing the urge to listen to the peppy trills of an idol singing about high school crushes and unrequited love. Everyone’s got their own jam, like Prompto who’s always blasting Ron Goodwin out of one earpiece whenever they gather to demolish their assignments, and _then_ there’s Gladio who’d sometimes slink onto the sofa with his nose buried in either _An Inquiry into the Good_ or _Romancing Sir Sigurd_ , and there’s no in-between. 

In fact, Noctis is actually more than happy to safeguard Ignis’ secret for the rest of his entire life just because he’s such a bro (or in his case, he conveniently forgot about it), but he’s also failed to take into account that Prompto’s exceptionally good at noticing things. Photographer quirk, he calls it.

“Dude.” Prompto says.

Noctis does his best impression of The Thinker dating from M.E. 655.

“Iggy’s into this kind of thing.” Prompto asks, sans question mark. The shock definitely got to him. “Did you know about it.”

Bros gotta protect each other’s secrets, right? Right. But the bro code never outlined an emergency protocol when two bros are pitted against each other. Who’s to say which bro is more important to him? ‘cause Prompto’s a bro, Ignis’ a bro, and asking him to pick between two bros is like asking him to choose either Assassin’s Creed or King’s Knight.

Noctis weighs the two. He chances a glance at Prompto’s shell-shocked stance of a hand _barely_ touching the glossy cover of _an_ _・an_ unrolled from the boring brown paperbag of weekly groceries. There it is again, that **_iNTERGALACTiC_ _★ DiVΔ_** graces the cover in all of your majestic glory. Forgoing all the sparkling cuteness of a girleen for elegance, pearls in your sedate coiffure, smoky makeup and that white-tipped-fingernails thing girls do when they want to be extra fancy. You're pretty—no, beautiful, actually—but then again, when is a magazine cover _not_ photoshopped? Yeah.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you this,” Prompto goes on at Noctis’ extended silence, “cuz I thought he was Moogling some recipe for dinner but _dude_ , he was ordering her CD off Amazon. Thought that was a one-time thing so I was pretty _meh_ about it,” he shrugs, “but y’know, it was _so_ not a one-time thing because it was a five-time thing—”

Noctis makes a sound in his throat. _Never_ underestimate a photographer’s quirk. 

“—and I’m really not gonna judge if he’s into idols since they’re cute,” Prompto nods along to his rambling which gets Noctis to _nod_ along just to show he’s listening and _oh_ he’s _listening_ all right, “but it got me _thinking._ ”

And when Prompto starts thinking, that’s when Noctis should start getting _really_ worried.

As if guided by his instincts more than his rational mind, the blond extracts _an_ _・an_ and smoothens it on the table, palms pressing down the corners like this elusive evidence of Ignis’ intersecting interest in the idol world will do a comical _poof_ and disappear in curly smoke. His stare hardens more than a diamond. “Iggy’s birthday’s around the corner, right?”

“Uh.” Noctis _really_ can’t see where this is going and subtly wonders if abusing the powers of the Oracle would grant him a vision into the future for something like this. Would Luna grant him her strength in times of great emergency if he blasted a message through Umbra? “I guess? It’s next week. February 7th.”

Prompto makes a sound in his throat that is eerily similar to Noctis’.  And when he turns, Noctis thinks the light in his eyes is bright enough to banish the impending gloom and doom prophesized in the future. He might as well be the King of Light at this rate.

Prompto says, “Dude. I’ve got an idea.”

**iii:**

When Prompto says he has an idea, it’d normally be a great idea. “Wanna ditch and hang out at the arcade?” he’d ask, to which a 16-year-old Noctis would do a 180 from returning to class after lunch and misuse his warping talent to zip in and out of his classroom with his bag _through_ the _window_ , and they’d rendezvous at Club Sega just for diversion tactics. Blasting through zombie brains and kicking each other’s ass in Street Fighter, they’d spend the whole evening there unless Ignis _hears_ them play hooky, usually by way of a ‘concerned’ teacher ratting them out at the very last second. At most, Noctis gets an earful that he evades with practiced ignorance with all that regurgitated nonsense of he’s the prince and he shouldn’t be skipping school, _but._

This idea.

It’s very bad.

Noctis doesn’t know why, but it’s _very_ bad.

Going up to the receptionist counter and boldly proclaiming that he’s the prince isn’t at the top of list of things he wanted to do because he’s really not into blatant exploitation of his title. But _hey,_ it works. It takes one slack-jawed, starry-eyed intern whispering in awe, “Prince Noctis? Can I get your autograph please?” and a ballpen hastily scrawling across lipstick-smudged napkin later, he finds himself fidgeting on a stool in a bright dressing room, bulbs lining the mirror blasting him with light. Rolling racks are hanging with the most absurd yet lavishly decorated dresses decked in chiffons and sequins in all the colours a rainbow has to offer. Striped tophat completes what he thinks is a feminine form of a tuxedo, while thigh-high boots are stationed under a rugged combo of punk-rock aesthetics involving a PVC-belted skirt and metallic studs. The world of an idol is far more fearsome than the life of a prince destined to die, he thinks.

Prompto turns to him with the most scandalised expression ever after taking stock of the myriad of makeup products littered on the countertop, gasping, “That was way easier than I thought.”

“I’m just glad they didn’t kick up a huge fuss over it,” Noctis grunts. Then, as if the weight of what they’re doing is finally hitting him with the force of Gladio’s blows, Noctis blows a limp lock of hair out of his face. “We’re _really_ doing this.”

Prompto cocks a brow and appropriates the plastic stool across him. “Dude, you’ve got a better birthday bash idea going on?”

Noctis couldn’t answer that.

No, really, he couldn’t even answer that because the moment he opens his mouth, the door opens _instead._ What’s he supposed to do other than to gape like a fish out of water, an expression he’s seen from all the fishes he strung up on his line, when you flounced right in? That hair cannot be natural, Noctis thinks, as he eyes the way light powders pastel purple tresses crowned by roses. Hands from who he thinks is your personal stylist are fussing over the deep wrinkles left by the rippling of your complicated dress, while the bespectacled woman beside you _glares_ at him from behind a clipboard. Petals flaking from your cheek to your collarbone, filigrees cresting your shoulders—unless Photoshop worked in real-time, there’s no way a person would look _that_ unearthly.

The way Prompto’s jaw is hanging tells him that he’s not alone in his thoughts.

Contact lenses are obviously the explanation behind your roseate eyes, there’s no _other_ way he’s going to accept someone else having eyes _that_ pretty. And false eyelashes, the kind that Gladio babbled about when Iris broke his bank wanting to experiment with makeup, _yeah_ , that stuff’s definitely glued someway somehow on your eyelids. It makes sense that an idol’s job is to look pretty because looks sell either way and _everyone_ loves a pretty face, so. _Yeah._ Noctis doesn’t know where he’s going with his train of thoughts because it’s on the verge of derailing right now, especially when those eyes flit to seek his and the corners of glossy lips curl with a sanguine smile.

You are unhesitant in striding forward to offer him your hand. Confident. **Bold**. Singsong _sweet_ , the singer you are. “You must be Prince Noctis,” you say, and he’s never known that his name would sound _that_ nice on someone else’s tongue. “Sorry you had to see me like this, I was in the middle of a shoot when you arrived.”

What was he supposed to say at times like this again?

Right, first: The handshake.  

His legs are jelly-filled donuts when he stands and his arms are wet spaghetti. Prompto almost toppled his stool when he gets to his feet to receive your hand after Noctis. “I, ah,” Noctis starts, _smooth_ because they never rehearsed this far? And how is he supposed to be making demands as a prince to an idol? When Prompto’s rapidly zoning into outer space and ascending to Astral realm instead of helping him out right now? “Uh—I. _We_ ,” he quickly rectifies the moment the Bespectacled Woman’s dirty look peeps from the rim of her glasses, “we’re here to ask if you’d meet with my friend.”

And here is where he stops, just because your brows stitch together following a quizzical tilt of head.

That stuff only looks cute in anime.

And it doesn’t help that you look 100% anime right now.

A quick darting of your eyes from Noctis to Prompto has your smile deepening. “So that’s him?”

You’re definitely getting the wrong idea here and it’s up to Noctis to save the day by jamming his elbow right in Prompto’s side. An embarrassing yelp that shot Prompto’s soul straight into his body later, the blond’s back in commission with a shaky laugh. “Ha—who, me? N-no, not this Argentum!”

…or maybe not.

Noctis wills himself to stomach Bespectacled Woman’s increasingly incensed glare and tries to remember why he’s doing this in the first place. For his bro. For Ignis Scientia. Best advisor. Birthday. Gotta make it meaningful. Idols. Cute idols. Huge fan. You. _Right._ “He’s not here right now,” Noctis corrects the misunderstanding as confusion clouds your face, “because we’re trying to keep it a secret. His birthday’s on February 7 and we’re trying to make it a surprise party because he’s a big fan of yours.” At your unrelenting stare, he deflates a little. “He’s, ah, my personal advisor.”

For a second, silence reigns.

“Oh,” you say.

He doesn’t get a chance to consult what _‘oh’_ means in Idol-Speak when Bespectacled Woman interjects, “So big of a fan until the prince himself has to abuse his authority and make Diva miss out on Gucci?” And _boy_ , Noctis hates being on the other end of Death Ray shooting from her eyes.  

But you’re quicker to laugh at his honesty, batting the woman on her arm. “It’s okay, Isolde, I got this.” And for him, a mischievous smile replaces your prior confusion as you offer yet another handshake, this time for _another_ reason altogether. “Aite, you’ve got yourself a deal! Let’s make this an epic birthday bash, yeah?”

When things work out far too easily, one should be suspicious.

Noctis, however, chalks it up to good luck when he hears Prompto splitting into a deafening, “Woohoo!” and answers your smile with a grin. The biggest, widest grin he could muster.

Because this is going to be the best birthday party _ever._

**iv:**

This is _not_ the best birthday party.

_Ever._

There are tears down your cheeks and you’re choking on your words. Your makeup should’ve been a mess but some part of Noctis is thanking the Astrals that guided your makeup artist to apply waterproof ones, probably out of sheer experience, because he’s never seen anyone bawling _this_ bad before. Whatever Iris had before doesn’t even cut close to this. Fists balled in your skirt, this verbal fisticuff doesn’t even look like it’s coming close to an ending. Even a fear-frozen Prompto’s clutching a gawking Gladio by the bicep and they’re _far_ , far away from the warzone while Noctis is the only idiot brave enough to remain where he first sat.

That is, right in between an eerily silent Ignis and a Diva well underway your waterworks.

“You know well by now that my duty to Prince Noctis cannot be taken lightly,” asserts his Advisor in the calmest, coldest manner that could’ve frosted the entirety of Leide. “I’ve explained it to you time and time again that I’m—“

“You’re the advisor, I get it,” you choke out, “but I wanted a big brother that I could’ve talked to! All you did was to toss me aside like I was—“

“I _never_ tossed you aside,” Ignis rebukes, the hiss of his words coming from thinning lips that is gradually downturned. “I received your calls, I replied to your messages, _I_ listened to mother and father talking about _you—_ “

“I’m always the one who has to do all the texting, calling!” you shriek in a pitch only sopranos could trill. Tears trekking down your cheeks, you are a sobbing, shuddering mess to Noctis’ left, the backs of your hands swiping away teardrops swaying off your jawline. “When did you _ever_ call me!? When did you even _bother_ to say good morning to _me_!? It’s always me who has to tell you—“

“I have a _job_ ,” Ignis retorts, adjusting his glasses from sliding down the bridge of his nose. “If I’m not carrying out my duties as an Advisor, I am at the Citadel attending meetings—“

This is crazy.

He’s going crazy.

In all honesty, he’s never tried watching soap operas for this very same reason: He can’t handle the drama. All the tears, all the angry exchanges, plots doing a backflip from I-love-you-so-much-I-will-die-for-you to I-don’t-love-you-anymore-because-we-are-actually-siblings-separated-at-birth. Galahdan soaps are notorious for pulling the rug under Prompto’s feet and making him drop series faster than his runs. But this? _This_ is another level of drama, one that has Noctis nursing his throbbing temples because _who_ would’ve guessed that said Intergalactic Diva is his Advisor’s little sister? And _who_ would’ve guessed that not only Gladiolus Amicitia has a little sister, Ignis Scientia, too, has a little sister of his own?

Definitely not Noctis.

And definitely not Prompto and Gladio too, judging from how their eyeballs are playing ping-pong with how they’re chasing after Ignis’ accusations, only to have your indignant interruption instead.

While that explains why Ignis hides idol CDs and bought girly magazines, it does a poor job in explaining why he’s caught in a crossfire between the Scientias.

“You _hate_ me,” you spit out, and _woah_ what part of the episode did Noctis miss out? He’s pretty sure he paused on the whole you-never-spent-time-with-me, so how did it end up this way?

Ignis removes his glasses and pinches the bridge of his nose, eyes scrunched tight with a pain only a brother could feel. “I do _not_ hate you. I’ve _never_ hated you, (y/n), _never_.”

“You hate me ever since I said I wanted to be an idol,” you sob out an octave lower, reddened eyes stabbing Ignis’ accusatorily. With how your bottom lip is quivering, it’s a wonder how your words manage to come out as a whole, sans stutters. “You said it’s a shameless job, you said they’re just exploiting high schoolers, you said—“

“But I _respected_ your decision—“

“After ma and pa made you—“

“That’s because I was worried about you—“

“And I keep telling you not to worry because you met Isolde and you met Ninian and you met Watanabe—“

“And they are nice people _but_ —“

—yeah, Noctis needs time out here because this sounds like a huge misunderstanding.

He composed a three-second plan and had it executed by standing up slowly and letting the chair drag right behind him across hardwood, letting the painful _skrrrrrrrrrrrrrr_ scream cut off what's left of the argument. And what an epic entry into the fray it is, Noctis thinks. Ignis is riveted by his uncharacteristic boldness and has resorted to clicking his mouth shut. Your sobs don’t stop, but at least your red-eyed red-nosed red-cheeked face wordlessly thanked him for the interruption. From the sidelines, Prompto’s mouthing at him _don’t do it Noct don’t get involved in the family feud_ but Six, Noct needs to straighten things out because technically he’s mildly at fault here for eating up his Advisor’s time by 70% even though it’s Ignis’ job, he thinks you don’t know how much Ignis actually _cherishes_ your journey to idolhood and bought your CDs and magazines, _and_ someone’s gotta eat that delicious two-tiered fondant-frosted cake on the table.

Besides, he’s going to be the King of Lucis, damn it, so what kind of king would he be if he can’t solve a petty squabble between two siblings?

Turning to Ignis, Noctis breathes out. “I got this.”

Ignis does _not_ think he got this. “Noct—“

Turning to you, Noctis snatches a napkin from his armiger and crams it in your hand. “Listen, Iggy doesn’t mean anything bad,” he starts as you’re carefully dabbing your eyes, teeth raking across gloss-sticky lips. “I’m the reason he can’t spend a lot of time with you because it’s his job as my advisor and there’s no helping it.” This is where Ignis makes an indignant noise and tries to cut in, but Noctis warp-strikes to his next sentence. “—And that part where you said Specs doesn’t care about you? You’re wrong. He bought a magazine with you on the cover. He even had _your_ CD in his car.”

Ignis makes _another_ noise that sounds torn between vehement denial and dying embarrassment. “ _Noct—_ “

Prompto, the greatest wingman in every GTA heist they pulled off, nods so rapidly in his corner until he looks like he’s having a seizure. “Yeah—no, seriously, he did,” he convinces you when you turn disbelieving eyes at him, napkin crumpling under fancy nails. “And I saw him going on Amazon trying to get all your limited edition albums. Five times.”

“Oh Gods,” Ignis chokes out, burning an interesting shade that contrasts with his hair. “Prompto—“

“And we didn’t know that Ignis _had_ a sibling because if we knew that Iggy had a little sis, we would’ve made him spend more time at home,” Gladio asserts, leaving his seat. “I know how ya feel because I’ve got a lil’ sister too. She calls me and texts me and nags me all the time if I don’t spend at least a weekend with her. Don’t get me wrong,” he adds when you turn sullen, putting up a hand to stop whatever retort you prepared, “I appreciate it when she does things like that for me. Sure, it gets annoying when I get nagged for missing movie night, but she’s _my_ little sister and I got nobody else to protect except for this scrawny ass prince we have here.”

Noctis balks at the jab aimed specifically for him, fighting off the heat burning up his cheeks. “Shut up. You’re missing the point.”

“—a-anyway, the point here is that Iggy _really_ cares for you even when you think he doesn’t!” Prompto crows when you look like you traded your sullen expression for a wobbling lower lip and eyes flooding with fresh tears. “We swear this is probably just a huge misunderstanding and we can probably talk this out to fix it! Right, Ignis?”

Such bros they are, never once allowing Ignis to shoulder the blame alone. Always _we_ and never _him_.

Ignis looks like he has half the mind to surrender to the Astrals’ machinations hell bent on messing up his birthday—only, everything comes to a stop when you sniff. A _loud_ sniff. And erupt into the biggest bawling session ever, dashing straight to Ignis’ arms. His poor Advisor gets his life squeezed out of him, smothered in his little sister’s death grip, but Noctis knows the glassy sheen in his green eyes isn’t a trick of light. 

Noctis clicks his mouth shut and eyeballs Prompto and Gladio, who’re trading self-satisfied smirks between the three. Sure, maybe you’re crying harder than Iris when she got ratted out at the Citadel, and _sure_ , the sounds are hideous like a behemoth’s mating cry, but it’s a job well done for all of them.

All’s well ends well.

**v:**

It is much later on, when you’ve dried your tears and Ignis changed out of a tear-streaked snot-soaked shirt, that they’re all gathered round the dining table with party poppers readied and candles glowing. That delicious two-tiered fondant-frosted cake dips under Ignis’ plastic knife and, under a shower of glitter paper and confetti, Noctis plates the first slice for the man of the hour. Turning 22 is hard work for Ignis who’s probably grown up feeling like he’s 30 all the time, and his Advisor probably deserves a medal of honour from the king for putting up with Noctis all the time, but this?

Eating cake together with his friends?

And having solved the sibling squabble between an attention-starved little sister and her excessively diligent big brother?

This is the closest he could get, he guesses.

.

**one:**

They’re crowding around him again.

“It must be nice being the prince! I bet you can do whatever you want!”

“So how many servants do you have? Ten? A hundred?”

“ _Noooo_ , it must be a thousand!”

Noctis Lucis Caelum, the name of the prince who stole your brother. Iggie was promised to the prince ever since he turned eight, and stopped being eight at that moment. For a boy who stole Iggie, he doesn’t look special. Sullen and withdrawn, cherub cheeks and choppy bangs. Hardly a word passing his lips as though nobody is deserving of his voice. You know, because you sit right beside him in class. Always staring at the skies as though the Astrals spoke to him in tones a human can’t, the prince surely daydreams of things only a prince could daydream about. Living in the grand Citadel with a hundred—no, a thousand helping hands, and your brother is simply one of his faceless servants.

You do not know if you detest him for stealing Iggie away or if you envy him instead.

Because he gets to spend more time with Iggie than you ever did.

**two:**

This is a memory you removed from your treasure box, a careful hand dusting over the grime caking the frame. It is a class picture of all the first graders, bobbed haircuts and flushed skin from sitting under a sun, trying to stare into the camera as sunlight flares off its lens. Arranged from left to right in the first row: Asuka and Sheryl are inseparable from the start; Ben, Jonathan, and Yukio are the rascals always running down the hallways when the teacher says not to; your homeroom teacher, Madam Maria, who teaches maths before lunch; crybaby Aina who doesn’t like eating alone; fraternal twins, Rebecca and Junior are always holding hands; Noctis and you, two seemingly unrelated people who are, in all actuality, related to each other by way of Ignis Scientia.

Even as you take a closer look at the yellowing photograph curling around the edges, you still don’t know what Noctis is thinking about.

Does he know about you?

Does he know about your existence?

What about your family name? Surely he’s noticed it?

If so, will he finally relate you to your brother?

Will he finally notice you?

And will he finally return Iggie to you?

**three:**

Mother packed your lunch today; your favourites, rice with heart-shaped sprinkles in pink, deep-fried chicken, egg mayo salad, and steamed crab cakes. Here, you are swinging your legs, chopsticks picking off one treat after another. Asuka and Sheryl are giggling from the corner of the classroom, trading side dishes like sisters from the same womb. Aina’s gone ahead and joined Rebecca and Junior at their tables, dragging her chair over with a ringing _scratch_ over the tiles. Somewhere outside the class, on the field below, the boys are immersed in a quick football game and trying to outdo each other for the qualifiers next week. They’ll surely come back into class later, reeking of salty sweat in this humid summer, which makes you bite into your crab cake a bit harder.

_At least they have friends_ , you think.

_At least they’re not alone_ , you think.

_Not lonely like me,_ you think.

Is the prince capable of feeling loneliness like you do?

Of course not.

He always has your brother with you.

_Always._

**Author's Note:**

> first off: if you feel you aint cute, you cute af. You cute as all hells in this fic. Believe in yourself you a cutie patootie 2019!
> 
> secondly: we’re going to be dealing with a lot of body image & skin problems & self-esteem issues in this fic, so that’s a heads up.
> 
> thirdly: HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY BIRTHDAY IGNIS SCIENTIA!
> 
> **Chapter 2: What ‘bout My Star?**  
>  _Someone stands before Noctis, and it’s not his bespectacled Advisor brooding on his tendency to sleep in, which is truly unbecoming for a prince. It’s a girl, veiled by an anti-pollen face mask, wearing the roundest pair of hipster glasses he’s ever seen. Nondescript snapback, shirt and acid wash jeans—what is this, why does he feel oddly scrutinized under her eyes and why does she even look at him that way?_
> 
> _Noctis blinks in hopes of clearing the mirage, fails to find an explanation, and affords a minute of silence before going, “Uh?”_
> 
> _For a moment, he thinks she’s smiling—her eyes crinkle upwards, but when it comes, it shakes the breath out of him. “Morning, Noctis. Diva here.”_
> 
> _It, meaning your imaginary punch to his solar plexus._


End file.
